DC v. Woodpecker

I should probably preface this post with a brief explanation of my status as a hippy-dippy tree-hugger.

First, I am, if you are like everyone I used to know (you know, pre-USAF, and especially pre-bible-belt, life), not a hippy-dippy tree-hugger at all. In fact, if you are anything like all those people from that past life, you might have even accused me of being too Liberal ( as in John Stuart Mill Liberal). I would shock my truly liberal (as in non-conservative) friends by talking about religion, or taxes, or even things like the environment in a way that did not entirely match their worldview. But you know, we were tolerant hippy-dippy friends so we moved on.

Then I met husband-dear and his band of friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, and I somehow became the perfect embodiment of the liberal, sandal-wearing, tree-hugging hippie. And I know why. It's because I said all the hippy-esque things people expect a tree-hugging liberal to say about topics such as the environment (I love it!), war (can't say I care for it a whole lot), WIC (it helps poor people eat well), gun control (common sense, people, common sense), religion (my God is my God,but hey, if He's not yours, that's cool too. I love you anyway. Would you like a hug?), and marriage (you do what you need to do. With a consenting adult. Thanks).

So even though I am far too right-leaning to be considered "for real" by the genuine liberals, the locals, as well as most military folk, find me an oddity. It's fine, although I must admit I have learned to zip my lip a little more in the past five or so years.

Anyway, all this to tell you about my first encounter with a live woodpecker. Last night, as husband-dear and the boys were off on a spring break camping trip, a persistent knocking at our door sent me jumping up in the air. I opened the door to an empty front porch, and after a brief break, the knocking persisted. I looked up, and there it was, a small brown bird, hammering against the ledge over our front door. It appear unperturbed by my arrival, and it was only when I waved my arms and hollored at it that it flew off, clearly chirping an insult at me.

Assuming that was that, I shut the door. A minute later, the knocking resumed. I opened the door again, and yes, the bird was back, chipping away at our freshly painted front porch. A loud "Hey" sent it flying off, but three minutes later, it was back at it. This went on for some time, at which point this exasperated tree-hugging hippie sent the following text to her husband:

I know. It's terrible. I should probably turn in my sandals right now.

Fortunately for the bird, and my status as a tree-loving birkenstock-wearing liberal, I quickly found out that woodpeckers are actually protected animals, and therefore one is not allowed to shoot them. Although that made my little liberal eyebrows go up an inch or two ('cause, I mean, we're debating allowing teachers to carry guns into schools, but we can't shoot a woodpecker?), I am a law-abiding tree-hugging hippy (who couldn't hit a bird the size of a child's fist anyway), so the bird lived.

It was quiet the rest of the evening, and when I got up the next morning, I was convinced I had won the battle.
"Knock-knock-knock!"
And Woody was back.

This time I took to the internet with a vengeance, and came up with foil as a good scare tactic. So, while in my pajamas, I drug a chair out on the front porch, brought a roll of aluminum foil, and went to town. It was quiet for ten minutes, and then "Knock-knock-knock!". A brief look outside told me that Woody had just knocked the foil to the ground. What a piece of work. Back to google, and this time, I have a plan. A plan that I triumphantly texted to husband-dear later that morning.

So, Woody, watch your beak, because I. Am. Ready.